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by callmesigyn



Series: Firebird [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Apology Sex, Aurora - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I'm Sorry, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Inspired by Music, Mentioned Ramsay Bolton, My babies deserved better, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Premature Ejaculation, Queen Sansa, Rape Aftermath, Sandor is a big soft teddy bear, Scars, Smut, Sort Of, Top Sandor Clegane, all of them - Freeform, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmesigyn/pseuds/callmesigyn
Summary: After becoming Queen in the North, Sansa receives a certain visitor in her solar. A man she thought was dead.A continuation to “Infections Of A Different Kind”, but it can be read separately. Set after 8x06.





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**Author's Note:**

> D&D did us soo dirty that I get mad just thinking about it. However, I love the idea of Sansa as Queen in the North and I couldn't imagine a scenario in which Dany would let our girl have her independence so this fic is Show Canon. I swear I'm thinking about rewriting the whole Series 8 and posting it here just out of spite XD.

Sansa sat gracefully on the wooden chair engraved with direwolves and snowflakes so small one could always miss it even as they sat on it, but the Queen in the North had gotten used to noticing the details of everything long ago. Petyr’s teachings intruding her mind as she anxiously smoothened out the embroidery on the large sleeves of her new grey gown – her own stitching of crimson weirwood leaves and teensy silver birds with ruby eyes shining in the light. Her posture was sure to make Septa Mordane proud from beyond the grave... or _spike_. Seeing the faces of the Northern Lords gawking at her in admiration as they placed a crown on her head, Sansa would never admit to anyone that it hurt. It hurt to sit in such a ladylike manner with the scars on her back, the random ones by Joffrey’s command and the deliberately placed ones by Ramsay. The circlet rested heavily amidst her blood hair – having grown darker with time. The silver ring with the two wolves’ heads of her father connected by the mouth on her forehead, entwined by a body of fish scales of her mother.

  
She was _Queen_.

  
After the massacre of King’s Landing, the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms had sat down and voted for the future of the realm. _To elect a King_. Sansa sighed, thinking how she could ever have been impressed by Tyrion’s intelligence. Not really supporting Bran’s decision to stay in the capital but also not knowing how to argue with someone who knew everything, Sansa had backed off before the lords who had spent years trying to manipulate who sits on the throne began killing themselves for the throne, _again_. The North would be safe from the Six Kingdom’s petty squabbles once the spot was open once more.

  
It was all she ever wanted, yet she felt empty. The halls on Winterfell, her home, started to feel less like home once her siblings had all left. Bran ruling miles away, Jon venturing beyond the Wall and Arya... _Gods only knew where Arya was_. Deep in winter, the castle was colder than ever before. Even despite Death’s defeat and the hot waterways inside the walls of her childhood home, there was still no little brothers climbing the towers, no bickering horse-faced sister, no sounds of clashing training swords of big brothers, be it full, half or adopted; and there was no mother and father looking out in pride.

  
The raising of steel and the sound of her new title ricocheting through the stone keep brought Sansa back to the room where it happened. The reminder of why she had been in such a position before with Jon – in this very room, even – greeted her with a shudder. She felt her nails digging crescent moon shapes on her palms. She needed to leave. Just before she could feel herself trembling with nervousness, Podrick lowered himself to her and whispered in her ear:

  
“A guest just came through the gates, m’lady”, his voice sweet... _understanding_. “He’s waiting for you in your family’s solar”.

  
Thanking whatever gods appeared to bless and torture her on a whim, she quickly excused herself and strode through the castle, heels slowly clanking on the stone floor as Sansa tried to regain her breath. Entering her solar, she found herself losing her breath all over again, but for very different reasons.

  
Sandor Clegane stood there, face drenched in dry blood, brown clothes with smears of white. _Ash_ , she realised with a start.

  
On the morning after their night together during the feast for the living, Sansa had woken up to an empty bed. Not that it had been a surprise. She was the Lady of Winterfell after all; he couldn’t be seen leaving her chambers after the crack of dawn. The handkerchief he used to gently dab at her lip that day long ago on the battlements lay on the pillow beside her, a faint mark of blood, now brown with time, adorning it.

  
“Keep it. You’ll be needing that again”, he had said.

  
Not stopping to think about when or how he got it back from her, Sansa allowed herself to shed a sad tear for the first time since Ramsay. The handkerchief had been his favour to her, a warning that he didn’t plan on coming back. She knew he hated his brother. Seven Hells, _she_ wanted him dead for all the damage he’s caused, but she didn’t expect for him to be so willing to die for revenge.

  
Or at least that’s what she thought had happened when receiving the news of how the Targaryen Queen slaughtered the entire city. She had felt rage bubble up inside of her, such a rage that could have mistaken Sansa for a dragon but it was directed towards one instead. She had told Jon what would happen and he refused to listen, though he did the right thing in the end by killing Daenerys, he still held the opinion of that madwoman in a higher standard than that of his sister’s... or _cousin’s_...

  
None had believed Sansa’s warnings, too distracted by the silver beauty to listen to the little bird chirping away in the corner. Those were Sandor’s words when they cuddled the other night, lazily holding onto each other with their legs intertwined, Sansa turned to her scarred lover and began her chirping – feeling lighter than she had ever been in Gods knew how long.

  
“Why did you leave the feast?” He had asked, caressing the pale arm that led to the frail hand drawing patterns with his chest hair.

  
She told the truth without even thinking about it for the first time in forever. A strange look had crossed his eyes when she replied that she thought the Queen’s dragons were pissing on the weirwood tree, but she hadn’t let herself dwell on it. His soft eyes had twinkled with the dim light of the fireplace, not the angry eyes from King’s Landing, but the new ones she began to associate with simply _Sandor_ , the Hound long dead. They had filled her with courage – or maybe it had been the wine – to tell him all of her worries and concerns about the Queen.

  
“I can’t say I’m a fan of her dragons”, he had replied with a sardonic grin, though it was gentler than the ones he had given her before. Though she could still see the pain in his eyes as clearly as when he had told her how his monstrous brother had given him his scars.

  
She had missed him so much.

  
But now he was here again, a dirty bandage wrapped over his left eye, or what was the rest of it, but _alive_. Her knight was _alive_!

  
She could feel her palm – the one which he had kissed so tenderly – bleed from how hard Sansa was pressing it with her nails as she gathered her thoughts, trying to be strong enough to resist the urge to throw herself in his arms.

  
_“San-“_ , he was interrupted by Sansa’s lips crashing on his.

  
_She was weak._

  
Sansa felt herself be raised by the waist and she gladly wrapped her legs around his midsection, not caring that he was covered in ash and blood, or that he smelled horribly and probably hadn’t bathed since leaving Winterfell four months ago.

  
The young queen rained kisses on his ruined face. He groaned, a deep sound coming from his throat. Slowly but surely, Sansa felt his manhood stir on her stomach. Not able to resist it, she quickly felt herself thrust her heat against his erection, eliciting a soft sigh from her lips. Forcefully but gently, Sandor threw her on her work desk, not caring about the scattered papers on top of it, and began taking off his shirt and trousers. Fear rushed through Sansa for a moment before Sandor’s face came into view again after removing his tunic. She trailed and scratched over his chest, sometimes gripping the coarse black hair there.

  
“I need you, Little Bird”, he said while lifting up her dress to her neck, baring everything to him.

  
The beloved nickname, along with the feel of his scarred lips kissing and nipping her right breast as his large hand kneaded the other, brought a new wave of arousal to her. Sansa could very well sense how her wet smallclothes clung to her womanhood.

  
“Please”, she begged as he left her chest to trail kisses down her stomach, her back still pressed uncomfortable to the table.

  
“Would the Little Bird like to sing for me?” She could only moan loudly in return as his fingers grazed her quim. He let out a chuckle like those from King’s Landing, and Sansa felt ashamed for the spurt of wetness that came out of her. “Does the Queen like when the Dog licks her cunt?”

  
Sansa didn’t remember him saying such things to her during their last night together, but as he removed her smallclothes, she quickly learned that she liked them. “Yes... Gods, yes”, she whimpered. She liked them very much.

  
A sweep of tongue on the place between her legs was her only answer. Sansa let out a wail so piercing she prayed to all the gods to bless her this one time and not having anyone barge in to try and defend their Queen’s honour.

  
Sandor alternated between licking her there, kissing the little peaked bud that let her shuddering or sucking her lips into his mouth as two of his fingers pushed in and out of her. Hearing her noises become more and more reverberant, Sandor quickly moved his way up her, silencing her screams with his kiss. Sansa let out a little whimper, feeling the loss of Sandor’s lips on her quim, but was compensated by him adding a third finger inside of her, touching her special spot with his middle finger and drawing circles on Sansa’s little bundle of nerves with his thumb. This was all about her pleasure, his apology to her, even though Sansa could feel his cock humping her, but she was more than willing to rub it as best as she could with her thighs.

"I won't last long", he said.

  
He was still kissing her when she came, drowning out the sound. And while Sansa took a breather, she watched as Sandor gripped his manhood, stroking and squeezing it a few times before coming – leaving a trail of his seed drown her stomach to the auburn hair on her cunt.

  
She knew he tried not to crush her when he made a move to lie on her side, but Sansa clutched him tightly and brought himself to her, enjoying the feel of his weight on top of her. She felt him lay a wet kiss on her hair.

  
“Sansa, I fucking love you”, he whispered.

  
Smiling from ear to ear, Sansa caressed the back of his neck lovingly.

  
She was _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you catch those Broadway references? ;)


End file.
